


White Nights

by mrua7



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 10:57:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10695588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: An Illya backstory...





	White Nights

**Author's Note:**

> this is # 16 in my Illya series, which I'll be posting here a little at a time. There's over 25 stories in the series so far...

  
  
                              
  


It was the summer of 1951, and a young Illya Kuryakin was on a break from his classes and assignment at the Sorbonne. His on-going affair with his handler, Katiya Revchenkov, had been hot and heavy, though he knew he’d put himself in an untenable position by going to bed with her.

Yet that did not  deter him, as she was hypnotic, luring him in with her sexual prowess and the depths of the black pools that were her almond shaped eyes. She was teaching the 18 year old a thing or two about being with a real woman and Illya was a fast and eager learner. *

He was not a stranger to sex by any means, having lost his virginity to his friend Natasha Asimov back in their days at the orphanage in Moskva, and had made love many times to the Cossack girl Magda in the camp of the Kubanskiye Kazakil, but being with Katiya; Illya learned much more when it came to making love to a slightly older and experienced woman.**

But now she had temporarily gone to the Kremlin; called for whatever purpose, Katiya did not say, and that left Illya basically alone and friendless in Paris until she returned.

As both a student and a covert operative, he kept to himself; he knew people from his classes, but there was no one he felt friendly towards event to try to get to know them better. Trust was something one did not bandy about and he was taught to trust no one.... It was a loneliness Illya had resigned him to being his lot in life.

He supposed they were not interested in getting to know him, as he always remained aloof, and was often looked upon as a know- it- all. It was not his fault that his eidetic memory served him well in his studies, allowing him to recall anything he read, and able to apply it as well.

Mercifully, with Katiya being gone, he was given permission from the Directorate to take a few days off...that was a very rare instance and he decided to take advantage of it.

Illya had no desire to return to Moskva, though it was the closest place he could call home for many years. There was no one there, just memories of a childhood lost, and a friend taken away from him at the orphanage. Illya often wondered what had become of Natasha, and supposed if he really tried, with the resources available to him through the intelligence arena; he might be able to find her.

He had no idea what the name was of the family she had been sent to, though the records at the orphanage might have contained the information. That bid him to ask the question, did he want to go near that place again...that stinking disease ridden cesspool, full of cruelty and outrecuidance in Moskva.

His answer at the moment was no, as he did not want Katiya to think he was following her, or think he was infatuated with her, though he really was. He had to be careful, though she was his lover, he thought of her as a friend as well, but in reality, she was merely his handler....he had to remind himself of that

Illya knew Paris like the back of his hand, and had seen so many of the sights there already so there was little that engaged his interest.  There were Parisian jazz clubs he’d been to, but even they seemed to bore him at the moment.

He suddenly recalled an old Russian saying. ‘Vse raboty i otsutstviye razvlecheniy sdelali Ivan skuchnym malʹchikom_all work and no play makes Ivan a dull boy.’

Perhaps a change of scenery was in order...but where? He had not been back to his birthplace in Kyiv since he’d been rescued there during the war, found nearly starved to death in the ruins  by soldiers of the glorious Red Army, who had taken the city back from the the Nazis.

There was nothing but pain there in Kyiv and he did not need to visit to remind him of the awful memories he carried with him, and would do so, no doubt, for the rest of his life.

It  dawned on him;  it was summer and what better place to go to than Leningrad?  The perpetual twilight was in full force, twenty four hours of light and skies that never darkened for months. He had always heard how beautiful it was there.

.

Two days later Illya arrived at his destination and simply walked, and walked, breathing in the air of home, for all intents and purposes.  Russia was his country though no place there was really home in the true sense of the word.

After wandering the city, Illya boarded a motorized launch, cruising  the Neva river toward the former Winter Palace of the Tsars, known as the Hermitage, since its founding by Catherine the Great back in the late 1700s.

The boat passed below a low arched bridge that Illya suddenly feared would graze the scalps of the passengers as they glided beneath it. Just ahead, a boisterous wedding party on the deck of a wooden cruiser filled the air with shouts of “Gorko!,” meaning bitterness, the traditional Russian encouragement to the bride and groom to kiss and thus provide the guests with the opposite of what was being proclaimed.

Pink, and violet clouds streaked the horizon, highlighting the remnants of the Church of the Savior on the Spilled Blood or the Church on the Blood as it was known to the people of Leningrad, as it marked the spot where Alexander II was fatally wounded in an assassination attempt 1881. After the Revolution, the church, despite becoming an official cathedral in 1923 was looted. It was closed in during the war years, and essentially turned into a garbage dump. Damage from the Siege of Leningrad could still be seen on what was left of the church's walls.

It reminded Illya of Vladimir Cathedral in Kyiv as well as St. Basil’s in Moskva, but since the end of the war it was used as a warehouse for the Small Opera Theatre. The valuable shrine was almost completely destroyed; four jasper columns with mosaic mountings in them, and a part of the balustrade were all that remained.

Across the river, on Zayachy Island, one of a multitude of small islands in the Neva that fell within Leningrad’s limits, was Peter and Paul Cathedral, the burial place of Peter the Great.

The golden-spired cathedral glistened in the fading sun,  while Illya  breathed in the air  that was a pungent mix of gasoline and ripe river smells. He looked at his watch, seeing that is would have been well past sunset in Paris, yet the the sky was still as bright as that of a late summer’s day elsewhere.

In the once grand city of the Tsars, they called them the “White Nights,” evenings that remained in near state of twilight,  running from May to the end of July, when the city emerged from long months of cold and darkness to celebrate the brief return of nearly round-the-clock daylight.

This was because the city was situated a few latitudinal lines south of the Arctic Circle, at the eastern end of the Gulf of Finland. It had been welcoming the summer with relief and celebration ever since Peter the Great founded the city in the early 18th century.

These celebrations were interrupted  by wars, revolution and the edicts of the Soviet state. The Russian Revolution broke out 1917, when the city was called Petrograd.

Only a few decades later, between 1941 and 1944, as many as 800,000 people died of hunger, disease and exposure during the nearly 900-day Nazi siege of the city the Bolsheviks had renamed Leningrad.

Under  Stalin and his predecessors... the Troika of Malenkov, Beria and Molotov,  the celebration of White Nights were subdued and controlled affairs, limited to a smattering of classical music concerts. The economy of the city was not strong, as it was still recovering from the effects of the great siege, and many of its citizens were forced to rely on food rationing...hardly the economic environment in which to stage all-night, citywide revelries.

The Winter Palace had been the main residence of the Russian Tsars and still retained its magnificence on the bank of the Neva, and was perhaps Leningrad’s most impressive attraction. The green-and-white three-storey palace was a marvel of Baroque architecture and boasted 1,786 doors, 1,945 windows and 1,057 elegantly and lavishly decorated halls and rooms, many of which were open to the public.

  
                  
  


Here Illya disembarked for a tour. It was his first time in Leningrad, and he thought to take in some of the major sights, as he might never have the chance to see them again.

Inside this lavish building were thousands of works of art and artifacts, in spite of some of the treasures of the Tsars having been sold off by some or stolen....paintings, sculptures and works of archaeological finds and numismatic material abounded.

Sadly the golden, jewel-encrusted Amber Room, which was made of several tons of the gemstone was no longer there.  A gift to Peter the Great in 1716 celebrating peace between Russia and Prussia;  the room's fate became anything but peaceful as the Nazis looted it  and in the final months of the war, the amber panels, which had been packed away in crates, disappeared and still remained missing.

  
                              
  


Though throughout Stalin’s regime and those of his followers were all about the theoretical sharing of wealth among the collective, it had still not been brought to fruition. Illya was still a believer in Communism, yet the reality was that it was not working,  at least for the everyday man. Selling off old treasures of the Tsars and pieces of the countries history was a convenient source that filled the deep pockets of corrupt government officials but not those who really needed the money.

Illya wandered among the decadent trappings, still feeling a small bit of pride at the remaining beauty created by his ancestors, though he’d never dare admit that he was distantly related to the Romanoffs on his mother’s side. That was a secret that would no doubt have him end up somewhere in a gulag, never to be heard from again, like his grandfather Count Alexander Sergeivich Kuryakin.

The young Kuryakin was in awe of the paintings, the statuary and minutest details of the architecture, but the Communist in him still cringed at the wealth within and the walls that housed it all.  People starved while these places were built so long ago, and they were still starving.

  
  
                    
  


He looked away from studying the details of carvings that surrounded a doorway, to a blonde woman who had caught his eye, she was toting a young child in her arms. The girl was following behind a couple...a man in an army officer’s uniform and a homely looking woman dressed in a grey skirt and jacket, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. She had a mole on her chin, Illya swore was the size of a Kopek coin.

Illya hardened his gaze at the blonde, recognizing her now in disbelief.  It was Natasha, his friend and lover from the orphanage in Moskva.*

He approached her cautiously, stepping up beside her. ”Natasha?” He whispered tentatively, and was amazed it was truly her.

“Illya?” She blurted out, immediately covering  her mouth with her free hand, lest the Colonel and his wife, a few steps ahead, heard her.

“Da, eto mne_ yes it is me,” he smiled, keeping his voice low.

“Ya ne mogu poveritʹ, chto eto ty ... chto ty zhiv. Chto, kak_I cannot believe it... you are alive. What, how...?” Just then the baby she was carrying began to fuss.

Illya cut off Natasha.  There was nothing he could tell her about himself. What could he say; he was a spy working for military intelligence, and on a holiday...no that would not do. His only recourse was to lie to her, leaving in a little bit of the truth.

“I work on a farming collective and am here with the director as his driver.  He gave me a few hours off. I have never seen the museum and thought this might be my one chance...”

“Natasha!” The Colonel bellowed at her, “Imeyte eto rebenok tikho! I u vas net razresheniya ni s kem razgovarivatʹ_keep my son quiet! And you do not have permission to speak to anyone!”

He turned his attention to the young blond man beside her.”Otoydi ot neye... malʹchik i bytʹ na o Vashem biznese_get away from my servant... boy, and be on about your business!”

“Da-er_yes sir,” Illya bowed his head, backing away, holding his black hat in his hands. He turned, but glanced back at Natasha. She looked so worn, so very tired, and older than her young years. He watched as she gave him a little wave and a smile.

“Budʹte schastlivy_be happy,” she mouthed the words.  
  
  
Illya did the same, staying to one side, staring as they walked away. It was not safe for him to follow, as he could not risk getting her in trouble, and he decided their brief meeting, though serendipitous, was a gift of  sorts.

He’d never thought he would see her again after they first parted years ago, and yet here she was today. It was at least good to know she was alive, yet it made him feel even lonelier. Illya’s heart went out to her, but there was nothing he could do to help her. She was a prisoner of fate, just as he was.

This time it was not like the tearful good bye they had when she was taken away from the orphanage to assume her position of servitude.

This unexpected moment made Illya’s mood slip into a melancholy one, as seeing Natasha made his heart leap for joy, but her lot in life saddened him deeply. That night he left Leningrad, as he had now lost interest in staying there.

It was back to Paris to resume his assignment at the Sorbonne and return to his own life of servitude. His brief respite in Leningrad held mixed emotions for him; yet emotions soon to be buried and locked away, as he did with all his feelings.

His thoughts drifted back to Natasha, his first love, but he realized she had become simply a girl he knew somewhere, a memory now just like the endless ‘White Nights.’ The same could be said of the girl Magda, and though she was dead, she too was now just another girl he knew, somewhere.

In his loneliness, Illya Kuryakin longed for a true friend, knowing Katiya was not really that. Would his life allow for the bonds of friendship with someone he could truly trust, whether it be a woman or a man?

His pragmatic and very stoic Russian soul made him doubt that would ever happen...  
  


 

 

* ref “First Kill”    <http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/69953.html>

 

** ref “The Orphanage” <http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/33721.html>

  
** ref “Zaporoche” <http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/218041.html>


End file.
